


letters from boston

by tilthesundies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilthesundies/pseuds/tilthesundies
Summary: Louis’s standing in the kitchen when he opens the first letter.Hey,I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Boston, and it’s the only address I know.Happy holidays.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 352
Collections: Bottom Louis Fic Fest 2019





	letters from boston

**Author's Note:**

> did i struggle w this? yes. were the mods MUCH more patient and polite w me when they prolly should’ve yelled at me? yes. this isn’t as long as i wanted it to be; there was so much more that could’ve happened, but that is Life sometimes.

Louis recognises nothing.

Standing in his dimly lit kitchen on a Friday evening, fatigue from work hitting him distinctly and thoroughly in the root of his bones, he stares, slowly, at a postcard sent to him with no return address. Blinking, just as relaxed, his eyes cross over skilled, clean handwriting, reading:

_ Hey, _

_ I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Boston, and it’s the only address I know. _

_ Happy holidays. _

Louis’s eyes trail over the words multiple more times, then, flipping it over, examines it, and he chooses to go through his cabinet drawers to find a magnet. He carefully clips the paper to his refrigerator, reads it one more time, then heads to bed.

Next time, it’s Thanksgiving eve.

Louis’s taking a bottle of dark red wine to his lips as he stands over the stove, attempting to make his own gravy for his pieces of sliced turkey. He likes his gravy thick, and sweet; and he likes pouring it over his mashed potatoes, too, as well as corn. As he’s looking into his boiling pot of corn, his eyesight flies to the fridge, briefly, fleetingly, and returns twice to the letter he had received the other day hanging on top of other papers he’s had there for God knows how long.

Peeking at his cooking food, Louis breaks away and makes his way steadily to his little desk placed in the corner of his living room. 

He rips a paper from his stationary and returns to the counter next to his pot of corn, leaning his elbows against the white marble. It takes him a moment to think of what to say — how should he greet this person? There’s no signature. No name. Should he comment on what had been written to him? Or keep it away, and ask about their holiday?

_ Hi, _

_ I don’t know if you are, but I hope you’re doing something comforting this Thanksgiving. I’m making my favorite holiday meal and going to put on one of my favorite movies to watch with my cat. _

_ Happy Turkey Day. _

Louis finds an envelope and seals it for mailing the next morning.

It’s a week before he gets anything.

Louis’s stepped out of his home in his fairly decent pyjamas to retrieve his mail, and as he combs through it, he notices a letter. The mailing address is familiar, but there’s no name to say who’s it from. Having a feeling it’s from the same man he’s received a letter from before, he opens it.

_ I hate Thanksgiving. _

He closes it.

All right, then.

Louis goes back inside.

On a day where Louis is scheduled to do work load at home, he travels to a little bookshop.

It’s not anyplace special. It’s a shop he’s recently begun coming to—something different, and, strangely, iridescent in silence. He gets homesick; in the sense he gets sick of his home—Louis gets tied up in it so often, he feels suffocated, eventually. Beginning and finishing his work in any other place than his home, he feels different sleeping that same night. 

It’s when he’s in the middle of a presentation he gets a sudden whiff of a cologne similar to tobacco and something sweet.

Louis wrinkles his nose.

But the smell doesn’t drift away.

He finally turns his head to the left where bookshelves are lined like a library's — a tall man is standing two aisles from him, short, brown curls tucked by sunglasses, white shirt worn in the sleeves and collar with flared jeans. 

His cologne sure did match the way he dressed.

Louis went back to work, but he then felt a presence sit at the opposite corner of his table, tobacco smell stronger than previously. He darts his eyes up and over, fleetingly—his gaze meets a ready’s stranger’s whom had been stood in the aisle, a shade of green Louis’s not come across much. Louis goes right back to his presentation, pushing it out of his mind despite feeling it still on him.

It works for an hour.

Then, all of a sudden, it’s:

“What are you working on?”

It stops Louis’s fingers—he curls them as they remain lifted from the keyboard. Meeting the guy’s gaze, they’re a little stranger than earlier; a little more intrigued, a little more comfortable.

“What’s it to you?” Louis replies—now, unintentionally it comes out as snippy.

Doesn’t faze stranger.

He shrugs.

“I’m nosy,” he admits.

“I see,” Louis tests, tone quieter. Brief silence amongst them. “I’m writing a presentation for work.”

“What do you do?” stranger fires.

Louis contemplates answering. “I work in an office,” he chooses.

“And?”

“And I’m not obligated to inform you of anything else.”

Louis’s eyes drop to his screen, briefly skimming words he’s written to pick up back where he was at; however, the vanilla syllables of the stranger’s voice have his brain covering the same words as he speaks.

“I agree”—there’s a “but”—“but—”

“There’s no ‘but.’”

“I digress.”

“A habit of yours?” Louis retorts.

“I like you,” stranger comments, a small smirk uplifting the corners of his mouth, a show of soft dimples making an unexpected appearance. “My name’s Harry.” Still no response from Louis. “ You’re funny, has anyone told you?”

“Co-workers, my mom and sisters sarcastically, probably my cat when I give her what she wants,” Louis replies.

“Animals do love playing along when they get what they want,” he agrees.

Louis closes his laptop.

“See you later,” he parts with, slipping his computer back into his pastel purple carrying case and standing from his chair. 

There’s a certain appeal to working at home suddenly.

“Bye,” Harry gently says.

Louis walks out the door without looking back.

In another week, he receives a letter. 

He reads it in the kitchen.

_ I don’t hate Thanksgiving _ , it starts.  _ I apologize if that sounded aggressive and uninviting. I was a little out of it the night I wrote and sent that to you. I just merely hate the loneliness it expands in my chest—the loneliness the holidays come with for people like me who don’t have people to celebrate it with. Now, I don’t need nor do I want pity/sympathy. It’s not what I’m asking for. In fact, I ask for nothing. _

_ I require nothing but a listening ear, because everything is and always will be okay, but every once in a while, we require a voice to express our emotions and simply an ear to bear it. _

_ Can you be that ear for me? _

Louis isn’t sure how to feel after reading this—so, he reads it again, and then once again.

It takes him a few days before he can even begin to formulate a response. It isn’t because he doesn’t care, nor that he’s heartless, but that the vast of the letter and appearance of it threw him off guard—chipped off an instinctive part of human nature’s sympathy. 

What he’ll use, instead, is empathy.

Empathy, never sympathy.

_ Yes _ , Louis states openly in his letter.

_ I understand you. I understand the loneliness. You’re not the first, and I empathize with you; I’ve had to help a sister with a similar burden. May I ask if this is every year, or are you fine one year and the next one is difficult like this?  _

_ I’ll be your ear. _

Louis seals it.

Louis receives two letters in just a matter of the next five days.

Opening one, it simply says:

_ Thank you. _

Nothing else, back or front.

_ It’s consistently every year _ , starts the second letter,  _ at this time, on and off throughout the rest. It’s not something that makes sense, really. I don’t like to talk about it a lot, so, let’s not for now; I don’t mean to be so wishy-washy.  _

_ Tell me more about your life and family. _

Louis does.

It goes on like this for weeks.

Louis receives a letter, he writes one back—they get to know each other through numerous ups and downs, and they speak more of what they had originally—however, only a little bit; in bits and pieces over their letters, when it applies. He also travels to the bookshop a few times since then, and the one out of four times he sees the Tobacco Man. He doesn’t communicate much with Louis that time, just a few smiles and, perhaps, a sly wink.

It doesn’t bother Louis, and it’s not anything Louis thinks about.

_ Christmas is coming _ , is how the letter starts.

He writes to Louis about all the things he wants to, but never phrases them in a way in which he  _ plans _ to act on—as if he’s discussing a dream. It makes Louis roll his eyes, neither good nor bad. He just wishes he’d begin discussing all of it in a way it will come to fruition, not as a what if.

_ Come visit me for Christmas. _

It’s bold of Louis to write those words down—and, quite frankly, he hesitates once he reads them.

He doesn’t know this man’s name, he doesn’t know what he looks, he doesn’t know what he sounds like—he may know some of his demons and favorite music and vegetables and junk food and movies, but he doesn’t know the physical attributes. 

Louis watches the news too much to know he’ll risk getting killed.

As awful as that sounds.

He sends the letter, anyway.

It’s Christmas eve.

Late evening Christmas eve.

Louis’s taken the time to make a whole dinner for himself, as well as his cat, have Christmas music blasting as he prepares it and Christmas movie classics as he eats it. It’s been nice, calm, fulfilling—but there’s been a constant in his subconscious, and that’s if his pen pal will show up.

Louis had stated  _ Christmas _ , so, it wouldn’t be wrong for him to show up on actual Christmas; however, Louis’s too wishful and that’s not enough for him. In fact, he has no idea if his pen pal had even read or gotten his letter—maybe he’s too thoughtful to reject Louis’s invitation and is remaining quiet. It’s not fargetchef, in Louis’s head, because there’s been silence for two weeks.

He’s been contemplating sending an apology, but he’ll do it for sure when there’s a definite no show up.

But around 8, there’s a knock.

Lucifiurr’s ears perk up, her fluffy, white and orange head turning to the door, then to Louis when she hears him walking over.

Immediately, she hops out of her fluffy, pink bed to follow Louis to the door, turning on her little protective attitude and stopping, intertwined, around his feet. Louis’s spike in his heartbeat increases significantly so as he pulls the lock and opens the door. In comes the cold draft of air he takes a small step back from, and standing there is a tall man, short curls mostly hidden behind the hood of his black hoodie tucked underneath his long, fuzzy trench coat, eyes a familiar green curiosity.

_ Shit _ .

“Harry,” Louis sighs.

Louis can tell by the look in Harry’s eyes he’s as dumbfounded as Louis feels.

Silence.

“I’m . . . sure I have the right address,” Harry greets.

“You don’t sound it.”

“Of course I don’t,” Harry agrees, not mean about it. “I—”

“What are you here for?” Louis interrupts.

Harry pulls his hand out of his pocket with a familiar letter, and Louis’s heart starts racing again.  _ Fuck _ . That’s the exact one he had last sent to his pen pal, purposely unconcealing his address, so, that he’d know the address to come to. “This,” he answers, showcasing it to Louis. “I’ve been writing . . . to  _ you _ , apparently—I’m here to spend the holiday together.” A pause. “Unless . . .”

Louis spends a good minute examining him.

This is the same man who had been inappropriately nosy in the bookshop they had first met in—same man who has had his ambitions spilled in ink permanently latching onto the paper between them; who has unashamedly spoke of his loneliness and distaste he finds in winter holidays; whose parents once had done everything for him, then suddenly he had nothing. The exact man Louis’s heart has been beating a little faster for these past weeks, despite how the image of these two do not match up in his brain.

Pulling in a silent, deep breath, Louis steps aside. “Come in,” he invites softly.

Harry looks hesitant, but he does.

It’s been an hour.

Louis’s offered him hot chocolate, dinner he had made tonight—anything and everything. It was a little awkward the first bit, but, now, he’s not so sure, because his nervousness has morphed into something different; something he doesn’t know how to identify. Amd Harry’s constant back and forth staring only makes it worse, in Louis’s opinion. 

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” admits Louis, eventually.

It takes Harry a moment to respond.

“Are you disappointed?”

Louis’s not disappointed, per se, he’s just simply unsure of what he’s feeling. Or  _ how _ he feels. He turns his head to Harry. “I suppose not,” he says, “but I don’t know what I feel, either. . . . It’s like there are two of you in my head.”

Harry nods, briefly glancing at the television.

“I get it,” he replies.

There’s more silence.

Then: 

“I just want you to know . . . I’m not disappointed. I’ll admit I liked you when we met in the bookshop, but I was okay with not seeing you again because of the person behind these letters.” Harry scoffs just a tiny bit, not looking at Louis for once. “At first, the letter was a stupid thing—I was drunk; I apologize. I was fed up. Then you replied, and I felt a little embarrassed—but you made it okay. And . . .”—he looks up at Louis, now—“can I kiss you?”

Louis blinks. 

Harry’s question stuns him.

“Yeah—”

Harry’s mouth is on his—foreign softness capturing his own probably chapped lips. It takes a very long moment for Louis to navigate the kiss; he hasn’t kissed someone in a while, and, on top of this, it’s somebody he’s never touched before. But he likes it—he likes the way Harry isn’t too fast, or sloppy, or too bitey or using his tongue. He’d never imagined he’d be this good of a kisser in spite of his looks. Yes, looks that contain a sharp, unique dimension of them that cannot be easily matched to just any other’s; an enticing appeal that’s hard to look away from. Just thinking about it is making heat emit from his groin, and he can’t stop that feeling because it's been a long time for him.

What Harry does next is move his hands to Louis’s face, but briefly—his real mission is dropping them to his waist, one of the hands falling to Louis’s thigh to pull his leg over Harry’s lap. 

Louis doesn’t even stop him.

Just when he’s going to pull away to breathe his own air, to air himself out, hands grip his ass.

That’s it for Louis.

He’s unable to control the small whine that echoes in his throat, and instead of pulling away, he clings to Harry by grabbing the sleeves of his t-shirt, returning his kisses with a far more enthusiastic passion. Harry’s hands squeeze his ass, hard with intention, and it melts the insides of Louis’s organs.

He feels like he’s suffocating in his sweatpants.

Pulling his lips to the side, Harry trails his mouth to the corner of Louis’s and down his cheek, to his neck, to his collarbone, slowly and with precise, cautious kisses—and Louis fucking lets him. Fuck it. This feels good, and Harry’s an undeniably great kisser and attractive. He keeps pulling his mouth down, and Louis is losing his breath, little by little, as if anticipation is purposely being built.

As he takes his from his skin, he places them against Louis’s ear.

“Baby,” he whispers, “I really want to eat your ass.”

Louis shivers.

He has to swallow a few times, unable to obtain the sound of his voice. 

“Yeah,” he gets out.

Next thing Louis knows, he’s on his stomach, pants and underwear pulled completely off and left to bear everything from the waist down to the world. He grips the edges of the sofa’s linings when he feels Harry’s breath brushing against any and all peach fuzz on his cheeks—when he feels Harry’s knee make a dent in the couch and his warm, large hands resting on his ass, pulling his cheeks apart. He wants him to get on with it, itching to rub his dick against the cushions underneath him. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Harry comments, voice rough and deep and entirely genuine.

The comes the first lick.

It’s wet, a little different and maybe even a tad odd because he hasn’t done this in forever—but, Jesus, it’s good. 

Louis whines high in his throat.

“Shit,” he says.

“I’m just getting started,” Harry replies, an inch from his hole, and dives right back in. 

Louis squirms the entire time—whining and adjusting himself because he wants to touch his cock so badly and telling Harry to go faster or to slide his tongue against a specific sensitive spot for a little longer. Harry listens to him half the time—the other he’s giving an occasional spank on his ass, letting Louis know he’s got it under control and to shut up. It’s not as intense as it may sound, but even if it were, Louis wouldn’t be complaining. 

Eventually, Louis takes matters into his own hands, and wiggles enough to get his hand under him, lifting his butt in the air a couple inches to comfortably jack off. 

Harry pulls off.

“What are you doing, baby?”

“Touching myself,” Louis responds, then whines.

He feels Harry grip his sides and turn him over onto back, their eyes meeting. Harry’s mouth is a deeper pigment, and his eyes have a certain sparkle that tells Louis he wants him.

Pulling Louis’s hand away, Harry replaces it with his and says, “Let me do that for you,” in a rough tone, words breaking a little. His hand is warm on Louis, and the way he slides his hand up and down is so smooth and in a pace that he controls almost perfectly. Louis squeezes his eyes shut tightly—fuck, he’s going to come any fucking minute.

“Faster,” Louis pants.

Harry doubles the speed of his hand, and a spike of white heat forms quickly in Louis’s abdomen, stomach, pelvic area—it penetrates his whole lower body with the need to come so terribly strong. Then, out of his control, come spits barely an inch from the tip of his dick, dripping down Harry’s hand and some on Louis’s stomach, and the feeling paralyzing him for a couple moments.

Harry gets up, returns with some paper towels to wipe Louis’s stomach with.

Louis inhales a deep breath.

“Merry Christmas to us, huh?” he jokes.

Harry smiles.

“Definitely,” he agrees, sitting back on his legs.

Louis grabs his underwear from where they had been by his feet and slides them back on, same with his sweatpants. Clearing his throat, he sits up, feet on the ground, and looks to Harry, whose eyes meet his almost instantly.

“Would you like food, now?”

Harry chuckles, sweet and genuine. “Yes, thank you,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll be back.”

Louis bounces off the sofa, legs feeling similarly to jelly, and makes his way to the kitchen. He’s going to have to figure this one out now—how this is going to work, if they want to go on a date, how to get to know each other better, because, to be honest, Louis’s fallen a little bit for the guy he expresses himself as in all those letters; now, it’s about expressing that version of himself in person.

Jesus Christ.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment & kudos! & don’t be shy to bombard me with messages on cc & tumblr...I love both. | [tumblr](http://tllthesundies.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/tiIthesundies) | [post](https://tllthesundies.tumblr.com/post/184760414502/burnt-tied-up-by-tilthesundies-rating-explicit)


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